A Life For A Life
by laviecontinue
Summary: Ana makes a deal with the devil to save her father's life when her father cannot make reimbursements on the money he borrowed from ruthless, corrupt businessman Christian Grey. In order to spare her father's life Ana is forced to go along with the man as payment instead. Can love be found even with someone so cold? AU, HEA. Loan shark mob Christian. Violence, slow burn, action.
1. Chapter 1

Fifty Shades belongs to E.L. James. I'm still writing my other story but I had an idea. Let me know what you think :-)

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 **A Life For A Life**

APOV:

I press myself against the side of the car door, trying to appear smaller somehow, though I know it doesn't quite work. The man who owns me now- I refuse to comply with his wishes and address him by his name- spares one glance over at me, then engrosses himself back into the contents of a manila envelope he has resting in his lap.

My first impulse is to ask where it is that he intends to take me and just what it is that he will do with me, but I realize that doesn't even matter anymore. Why bother asking when my life practically doesn't even belong to me anymore? Why should I care what he ends up doing to me anyway? Death would be a good outcome for me at this point.

The city of Seattle flies past the window, all neon colors, skyscrapers, busy traffic and bright lights. I shut my eyes against the sight, moisture gathering beneath my eyelids.

 _Goodbye friends. Goodbye English Literature and sitting my finals._

 _Goodbye family._

For the longest time, I had thought I could be my own person, that I could separate myself from what my father Ray did and what he does. Now, I realize how naive I am. I just wish now that the price for saving my father's life had been a bullet to the head. A bullet to the head would be something I would take gladly over this.

But no, I can't think like that. I remind myself of what I had vowed to do once he took me away. I will not let this be the end of me. I would survive this. I will be free again once more. Some day. One day. This thought is the only glimmer of hope I find and cling onto with inexorable strength as I sit in the backseat, surrounded by the oppressive silence of Christian Grey next to me in his black Mercedes.

 **Three hours Earlier...**

My father usually kept me in the dark about all of his business endeavors, but I had overheard him talking to my mother the night before that he couldn't afford to funnel out his monthly repayments. He owed someone regular reimbursements of money that he had borrowed to start up his own business- something that wasn't going very well- though I didn't know who that person was at the time. My father Ray usually remained calm and level-headed, but he wasn't when I had overheard them talking in the kitchen.

"But you have paid him most of it back, haven't you?" I had heard my mother ask in a stressed, high-pitched voice.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Carla! The money we've spent on the business exceeds the money I can pay back for this month!"

"So what does this mean for us then?"

"You know what it means. We have to leave, Carla. We have to leave as soon as possible. Take our passports and leave. It's the only way."

"But Ana has only a few months left until she sits her finals and graduates. Can't we wait a little longer?"

"If we wait, we are good enough as dead, Carla! I know him! If we don't make the repayments as scheduled on this same time each month, he'll come here asking why I haven't been able to deposit the money in this month. This is the way he works."

I closed the door gently in my bedroom, immediately drowning out their whispered words. I had no idea what this meant, but obviously it was something bad. My father usually never was stressed or frightened about anything. And if he was, he always had good reason to be.

It was when I arrived home from college the next day that I saw the two cars parked out in the front of the driveway. Two black SUV's with tinted windows. We didn't get visitors very much, aside from the casual one on rare occurrence by a relative or some of my mother's and father's close friends. At the front door, I had paused to wipe my sneakers on the 'WELCOME HOME' mat because I knew from experience that my mother hated it when I brought in dirt and wet marks.

I had barely stepped inside when she was there, in my face, grabbing me by the arm as if to stop me from doing what I normally did, in taking off my jacket and hanging it up on the rack. There was an odd look on her face; She looked ashen and flustered, as if something terrible had happened.

"Don't worry, Mom. I wiped my shoes beforehand," I had told her with a laugh.

My laughter had immediately died when I noticed the man standing near the entryway to the kitchen. He was not a man I had seen before; He looked to be about in his late thirties or early forties, his hair trimmed and short like a crew-cut. He was wearing a black tailored suit, and he didn't bother smiling back at me when I did it to him.

"Mom, who's that?" I had asked her in confusion. "Why is there some guy standing in our-"

"-Sssh, just keep quiet," she hushed me in warning, grasping onto my hand tightly. Something was wrong, and I could tell by her behavior. Something was happening. Something bad.

"Where's dad?" I asked her anxiously, noticing he wasn't around. Usually he was home by the time I got in, and he would ask me about my day. My father and I were close.

"He's in the kitchen, talking to someone in private." I could see that she was trying to hide how anxious she was, how afraid. "Let's go upstairs to your room, Ana."

I didn't want to go upstairs. Not without talking to my father first, at the very least.

"Let me just go say hi to dad," I said, pretending not to notice her distressed state. "I want to see him and say hi first." I slipped my hand out of hers, though she tried to pull me back. The man standing in front of the entryway to the kitchen moved so I could get past.

"Ana, wait," my mother called desperately. "You don't want to see-"

But it was too late. My scalp prickled in fear as the air left my lungs in terror at the sight. My father. Tied to the chair near the kitchen table. Gagged with duct tape. His face was ashen, his skin slick with sweat. Shiny red blood was covering the side of his forehead. A large gash.

It took me a second too long to notice the man sitting in front of him in a chair. He shifted on the chair to turn and look at me, his eyes a cold steely gray. He was wearing a fine grey suit and white dress shirt, with a black tie. His face was clean-shaven. He was not at all what I was expecting, as far as being the one responsible of doing this to my poor father; He seemed barely into his thirties, his hair a copper brown. His eyes ran down my face and what I was wearing slowly, making me feel sick.

"Is this her?" he spoke calmly as he turned back to my father, his voice low, measured. "This is the only daughter?" It was as if it was so normal to him; doing such a terrible, cruel thing like this to my father. Judging by his tone of voice, you would assume he was here having a tea party with my father.

Before I knew what I was doing, in a panic, I went to rush to my father, to get him free. The gun the man held up to me froze me in my tracks, arctic fear coursing through me as I gasped.

"Step any closer to your father and he's a dead man. Is that understood?"

I stopped dead still, my body infected with paralysis. No one had ever pointed a gun at me before, nor had I seen one in real life. It wasn't a very nice feeling to have it pointed directly at you.

I felt my face close in onto itself in disgust. "Why are you doing this to him?" I spat out, shaking. He still held the gun pointed somewhere at my right arm lazily, though whether he had intentions to shoot me or not, I couldn't be sure. "Who are you? Why have you done this?"

"Who am I?" His eyes shone with sick amusement as he eyed me again. "Seriously? Your father didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" My father made a hoarse noise at the base of his throat. My eyes flit over to him. He was crying, his face red from straining to speak to me through the duct tape muffling every word he tried to say.

"Your father borrowed money off me six months ago, money he should be repaying back to me on this very day, every month. We had a contractual agreement, though... he mustn't have read the fine print. Don't you know that you should always read the fine print, Ray?" The man waved the gun at my father, taunting him. Every time the nozzle of the gun pointed at my father's head, he winced, the tears cascading down his ruddy face. "You borrowed sixty-eight thousand dollars from me. So far, in the six months, you've only paid me back ten. You know how I conduct my business, Ray. If I don't get back a monthly amount that satisfies me, then you know what happens."

He lifted his thumb, cocking the hammer on the gun.

I could not just stand there and watch it happen, I couldn't. Not my father.

"Please," I begged unsteadily.

He turned his eyes away from my father to look up at me, blinking slowly. It was obvious he had no qualms about murdering someone, even while their daughter plead for him not to. Cold. Emotionless. Heartless; that was what this man evidently was. It turned my stomach. "Please, what?"

"Please don't do this. He'll pay you all the money he borrowed back," I promised him fearfully. My throat tightened, stinging every time I swallowed down saliva as if I had a sharp shard of glass wedged in deep into my esophagus. "He _will_. He just needs a little time. Business hasn't been going as well as-"

"-I'm not here to know how your father is profiting with his business endeavor. I'm here because I want my money back. It's _that_ simple." I wasn't sure whether he was talking to me or to my father, but I could see that he was trying to keep his anger under wraps. He was reigning in his temper. "We had a deal, Ray. You signed the contract to reimburse some of the money you borrowed from me monthly. Now you tell me that you are unable to pay me this month. Was that written somewhere in the contract that you would have to miss a few installments monthly?" His voice shook as his tone went sharper. "No, I don't think so." His long fingers tightened around the gun as he held it towards my father's head again. My eyes stung with unshed tears, my gaze growing blurry.

"I'll give you me then. Just take me instead of hurting my father. Please."

Like I had lost all control of my limbs, I fell down on my knees near the man, reaching out with a hand to touch his kneecap through the lavish, silky material of his trousers. I didn't know why I said it or why I even bothered to get down onto my knees in front of him. It was just in the heat of the moment. All feeling left me; I felt numb. I couldn't even feel the slightest bit humiliated or self-conscious about being on my knees near the man, touching him imploringly, despite it making me feel sick. I was terrified he would kill my father, and with the way he had the gun pointed at him, it wasn't helping. At my words, my father screamed loudly, his hands straining to pull free from the ropes. The look of him, the helplessness in his eyes... it nearly broke me.

The man cocked his head sideways to look at me, his gray eyes bright with interest. "You?" he muttered, his expression devoid of anything. "I was thinking that taking a life would be enough as payback." He was talking to himself, or well, I assumed he was. His lips slimmed out into a thin line as he turned his gaze onto my father again. "What do you think, Ray? Is your only daughter worth sixty-eight thousand in value? I suppose we'll see in the end, won't we?"

A deal was made then. I would go with him instead of my father being shot right before my very own eyes. My life, for his life.

 _What did you think? I wanted to try write something a bit more serious. Christian won't be very nice in this fic at first- he'll seem cold-hearted to her- though he won't hurt Ana physically. It will be a bit similar to the beauty and the beast, Ana's bargain for him to take her instead of her father's life. Does it seem like something worth reading? It would help to know. Thanks for reading. Sorry if there's a lot of stories similar, I didn't know. I'll try to make it as different as possible though._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for the such quick response and interest in the story. I wasn't expecting that but I am relieved it seems like something you would like to read more of. Hope you like this one.**

 **Chapter 2**

I clasp my hands tightly in my lap, then pull them free, playing with my fingers. I pick at a loose piece of skin hanging from my cuticle, my stomach in permanent knots. I'm shivering, though I don't know whether its from the cool leather seat I'm sitting on or if it is just because I'm frightened. It's impossible to tell which is the main cause of it.

The silence in the backseat of the car between us, it's oppressive. Ominous. But I know its better to keep silent. I'm determined not to be the one to break it, to draw his attention away from the documents he holds in his hands back onto myself. After what seems like hours of silence, he folds the paper up neatly, shoving it back into the manila envelope with a heavy sigh. Then I feel his eyes sliver over to me.

I turn to look over at him, finding him regarding me steadily. He has a way of looking at me that makes me feel nervous. All he has to do is look at me with his eyes and already I feel intimidated. Maybe it's mainly because I know he's the one responsible for the scene that happened with my father in our kitchen?

The man is dangerous, a monster, and he has a way of looking at me as though I'm small; something inconvenient and insignificant. A bug that needs to be squished, and quickly.

"We need to establish a few ground rules. That way, it will make this easier- for the both of us." There is a note of disdain evident in his voice that he does not bother hiding.

My mouth goes dry as I force my gaze to remain on his. No man has eve effected me the way he does, simply just by maintaining eye-contact; He makes my skin prickle. He makes me feel dirty and sick.

My voice doesn't seem to want to cooperate with me. I have to try three times until the words properly formulate, "What kind of rules?"

"First thing first, do you prefer to go by Anastasia or Ana? I heard your mother calling you Ana." Of course he heard her calling me that. I had heard her too. She was screaming out my name when he took me out of the house with him, begging for him not to take me. _Not her daughter. Not her only daughter, please. Anything, but that._

"Ana. I prefer to be called Ana."

I think I see the corners of his lips curl upward as he nods once. I expect him to glance away from me, only he doesn't. His eyes remain on me, watching me. Scrutinizing me as if I'm not an object of feeling, as if he is trying to work out what to do with me.

"In the kitchen of your family home, you offered yourself to me in exchange for your father's life," he says bluntly, his eyes roaming down my body. They stop at my hands, observing the way I keep picking at the skin on one of my cuticles with my thumbnail. I wonder if he can tell easily that its a nervous habit. Somehow, I immediately think of him as a shark; something that can sniff out another creatures discomfort and fear.

"Yes, I did offer myself to you in exchange for my father to live," I whisper, my voice strangled. I don't know why he has to remind me. I know very well what I did back there.

"When you said it, I'm assuming you meant your body as well?"

Bile rises in my throat at the question, my heart feeling as if it has frozen into ice and has stopped functioning properly. I'm not surprised that he is asking, not exactly. A part of me was almost expecting it. I had, of course, offered myself to him so that he would spare my father's life without knowing what it was that would be in store for me at the hands of this man while stuck at his mercy.

But did I expect him to ask that very question out loud? For him to ask me whether I meant he could have my body as well, rape me, do whatever it was he wanted with me in that regard? No. I knew there would be a possibility and, even if he did want it, I know I would have no choice but to comply and not fight against him.

I have a feeling that not many people have fought against this man, then lived very long afterwards to see another day.

My heart races as the blood thrums loudly in my ears. "If it must be and its what you wish to do with me, then yes. Anything to make it so that you won't think of doing what you did to my father ever again."

I bring my eyes up to his face. I see that same mixture of dismay on his face, combined with repugnance. He shakes his head, lifting a hand to comb his fingers slowly through his hair. I have to say that I am relieved that he looks at me the way he does. If he finds me unappealing enough not to do anything _like that_ with me, then I'm extremely glad. I don't want to be what he considers attractive, particularly after what he did to my father.

He places a hand on the flat surface of the leather seat on the space between us. He moves it closer, gliding his palm on the smooth leather, stroking it, but he doesn't touch me, not even when the tips of his fingers are roughly five inches from the side of my leg. He doesn't touch me. Not yet.

"You will forget that you ever said or thought that, do you understand?" he gets out in one rushed breath, his voice harsh and firm. "I don't want anything like that from you. I'm not interested in that whatsoever with you."

The instant relief that fills me at his words makes it difficult to breathe and I feel light-headed. The look on his face- the repugnance- it's because he finds my appearance unappealing. Considering the circumstances, I'm immensely grateful for that.

He rests one elbow on the door, shifting away from me with his legs. He bunches his fingers into a fist, resting his chin on top of his knuckles. "While you're with me, no one lays an unwanted hand on you. Not me, and most certainly of all, not my people. However, if that does happen, I want you to come to me immediately. Do you understand?"

I nod mutely, feeling more relieved than I know I should be. It sounds too good to be true, everything that he is telling me. I shouldn't be so hasty to believe him.

"Out loud, Ana," he orders, and his brusque, cold tone causes me to stare immediately at him. His eyes search my face solemnly, his expression hard, grim. I am sure he can get anyone to do anything he says, if he has the power to look at them like that. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Also, if you ever feel threatened or if you are approached by anyone that you are uncertain of, you come to me. Immediately."

"I understand." Even as I say the words, I know I don't understand. Not really.

What does he want from me then? What am I to be doing while I'm stuck with him? Am I expected to be with him until he decides I am of no further use to him? Is he to be holding me leverage until my father pays up the rest of the money he owes?

"So what am I to be doing while I'm with you?" I ask nervously, the question I need answered, though I'm scared to know what the answer will be. "Will I be with you for a certain time until you decide I am of no further use to you? Are you..." My throat closes over at the question, and looking at his face, it becomes too hard. You can't just simply stare calmly into the eyes of the person you know will inevitably be the one killing you in the end. I clench my eyes shut, feeling the moisture gather underneath my eyelids, "Are you going to kill me?"

"No, I'm not." His soft tone causes me to reopen my eyes to look at him.

He smiles at me- the first time I have ever seen him smile in the last three or four hours. It doesn't touch his eyes and they remain cold and dead; The smile, it's fake, forced. It's as if he is made of steel; No amount of warmth can ever truly touch him.

"Despite what you may think of me, I'm not some trigger-happy deranged man who kills every single person he sees." He turns his head away, glancing out the window at all the scenery whizzing past us, before he adds in a low mutter, "And besides... I derive no pleasure out of killing someone who doesn't deserve it."

"But you would have killed my father if it weren't for me?" I guess confidently, knowing it to be true. I hate the unsteadiness of my voice. "Back there, in my kitchen... you thought my father deserved to die then, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did." Though his face is turned away, I see the side profile of it. The way he closes his eyes for a moment, his jaw tense. When he opens them, he says bitterly under his breath, "Anyone who rips me off and doesn't keep their word, in my view, always deserves to die. I don't tolerate being played for a fool. Everyone that I conduct business with quite regularly knows this very well about me, whereas your father obviously didn't."

"He _was_ going to pay you back," I assure him strongly. I know my father. "Once he got enough money, he _was_ going to pay you back all of the money that he borrowed from you. I know he was going to. My father never breaks his promises, to anyone."

He turns to peer at me, his head cocked slightly to the side. "Are you so sure about that?" he mutters skeptically. "Well, he broke his promise to me, didn't he? He broke his word?"

It hurts me, how he dares to speak of my father so lowly. He's accusing my father of being dishonest, a liar. That isn't true; My father is many things, but a liar isn't one of them. He's a good man, a good, supportive father- an even better man than the one that is sitting in the backseat with me.

"You have your father to thank for where you are sitting right now," he continues with a rough edge to his voice. It's as if he wants to intentionally upset me by badmouthing my father. "If he had been more cautious of keeping to his word...sticking to the contract, then you wouldn't be sitting here where you are right now, with me. The only one you have to blame for the situation you find yourself in now is your father."

He's right, I know. If my father had paid him the money back as agreed in the first place, then this wouldn't be happening. I wouldn't have had to do this in order to stop him from killing my father in cold blood. But it wasn't my father's fault that the business he wanted to run failed.

It wasn't my father's fault that he didn't get much profit returned from starting his own restaurant with the money this man gave to him. But that doesn't make my dad a dishonest man. He couldn't help it that his business wasn't as successful as he had been hoping for.

"Which brings me to what I'm going to do with you," he begins, changing topic effortlessly, and I listen very carefully. I need to know what he wants from me. My entire survival depends on it. "When you offered yourself to be taken instead of me taking your father's life, I admit that I was somewhat... hesitant. I wasn't so sure that I would have any need for you." He pauses, inhaling in deeply through his mouth. He's trying to work out how to phrase his next words carefully. "Then I had an idea. I'll need someone to accompany me to various functions. In my experience and as learned throughout the years, people tend to take you more seriously if you're... involved with someone."

"What sort of functions?"

"That doesn't concern you," he simply says evasively. "As for living arrangements, you'll have your own room. You won't be spoken to or interfered with unless I need you for something." He's quick and straight to the point. Businesslike. No emotion seeps through with anything that he is telling me. It's as though he is bored, like I'm this obligation or nuisance that has suddenly been sprung onto him, interrupting his plans. "I'll be attending to business quite a lot. When I am, you won't interrupt me. I won't interfere with you, and you won't interfere with me."

Something buzzes suddenly near him and he immediately moves, reaching a hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out a phone and he checks who the caller is before answering it, holding it up to his ear.

"Yeah?" he says, and then he falls silent as he listens carefully. His lips flatten into a thin line at the news the person says on the other line. Then he shoots a look in my direction, his eyebrows furrowed. "Excellent, so we have an agreement? Very good... Yes, go but leave him how he is." He laughs- the sound low and daunting somehow. "I'm sure the wife can deal with him." At that, he ends the call, shoving his phone back into his inner jacket pocket.

A part of me suspects he was talking about my father and my mother to someone on the phone. My heart races. I know that, when I had gotten home, I had seen two SUV's parked out front. I only left with him in one of them with the man that had been standing in the entryway to the kitchen, while the other SUV remained behind at the house. Were some of his people still there at the house after he left with me? Did they do something to my Mom and Dad?

"That was Sawyer on the phone, one of my associates," he explains to me, feeling it necessary to fill me in, I suppose. "He remained at the house after you left with me."

 _Oh, God._ So someone _did_ remain behind with my parents.

"Are they-" I begin shakily, but he interrupts me.

"-They're still alive and how they were when you left them, I can assure you." He sounds sincere, at least. I have no reason to believe him, but on this, he does not sound or look as though he is lying. There is something there shining in his eyes as he looks at me. It almost seems like pity. Maybe he isn't as hard-hearted as he appears? Maybe that's just a facade and he actually does have the capacity to feel bad for what he has done to my father? "Sawyer was just trying to convince them to come to a mutual agreement. Fortunately for Ray, he agreed to the terms rather quickly."

"A mutual agreement on what?"

His face closes down of all emotion as he turns away from me, glancing out the window again. It's terrifying; One minute, he can seem almost sympathetic. In the next, blank and unfeeling. "As I said, there will be certain things that won't concern you." When he peers over at me, his face is hard and filled with silent warning. "For your sake, Ana, you'll have to learn very quickly not to ask me too many questions. I don't answer to anyone."

 _Here is another chapter :) I do hope it is still interesting to you? I'd like to keep some mystery in the story so I won't reveal what the 'mutual agreement' entails until quite some time. Backstories will be slightly changed also- CG did still have a bad past, his mother, etc. But Ana's will be slightly varied also. Would love to know what you think. Thank you for inspiring me to continue with writing it._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I don't think I've ever felt so petrified before. Aside from what happened hours ago in my own house with my father, of course.

Flashes of my poor father's face come into my mind vividly, to the point where I have to clench my eyes tightly closed.

The bloody wet gash on my father's forehead, probably from what this man did to him. The way he struggled and yanked to get his arms and hands free from the rope that was restraining him to the chair. _And also.._.

I shiver, cringing in the leather. Wet tears roll down my cheeks.

The way he'd wailed loudly after I'd offered myself to the man sitting in the backseat near me; a horrifying, blood-curdling sound.

I don't think I've ever heard my father make such a frightening, harrowing sound before. It's like it was the worst outcome to my father, me being sent off with this man instead of my father being killed. Would my father really have preferred to die instead of his daughter being taken along with the man he owes money to? Can this man truly be worse than the fate of death?

"How much longer?" The man beside me suddenly says in that cold, aloof voice of his.

For a moment, I assume he's speaking to me. My eyes open reluctantly as my throat closes over. I turn, seeing him in double-vision, probably due to the way my eyes are blurry with tears. I think he's looking right at me again with those horrible, cold dead eyes of his.

I open my mouth, to the point where I fear I'll gag instead of speaking out proper words. But then-

"Not too long now, Sir," the driver in front seat suddenly answers and I press my lips together, remaining quiet immediately. "I'd say fifteen minutes or so."

The man sitting beside me nods once, his grey eyes still on me. He runs them down my body again slowly, evaluating the clothes I'm wearing, my shoes. _Stop staring,_ I wish I could scream, my entire body feeling paralyzed and dirty again. _Can't you see that even by staring that you're scaring me the crap out?_

He leans forward in his seat, his elbow against the armrest, "I'll have it now, Taylor."

Have it now? Have what now?

"Yes, Sir."

The man's eyes remain on me, even when he reaches out as the driver passes something back to him between the gap in the seats. Something a silky black material dangles off his forefinger by elastic. I realize what it is almost immediately.

An eye-mask, like something someone wears when they want to block out the sun and their surroundings completely in order to get some sleep. My mother Carla always wore one; being a light and sensitive sleeper the way she was.

I feel like I cannot even breathe as the man leans back in his seat, his fingers fiddling with the elastic band, stretching it with them. I can't even seem to get enough oxygen when the man stares at me again, my head feeling dizzy.

He speaks to me this time, his voice low, distant. "I'm going to put this on you." He doesn't need to elaborate for me to understand what he means.

The eye-mask. He wants to put it over my eyes. Why?

My tearful eyes widen as he moves towards me in the backseat, my heart hammering anxiously. "Why are you-?" I begin in a panicked voice.

"You don't need to see where we're going."

He moves fast, like a bloodthirsty snake desperate to strike at me and sink his fangs and venom in.

In one quick movement before I can so much as do anything, he's shoving that eye-mask over my head, dragging it down over my eyes.

Blackness covers my vision, making it impossible to see. The elastic band slaps roughly and snags in the strands of my hair at the back of my head, making me wince.

Tears sting in my eyes as I try to keep them open despite the dark cloth covering them. But then I feel that painful dull sensation of an eyelash getting in my eye, and I have to immediately clench my eyes shut, succumbed to even a greater, deeper darkness.

I've never been more terrified of the dark.

I remember, when I was younger, being horrified of the dark in my room whenever my Mom switched my lamplight off. There had always been something threatening about the shadows that would move around and come to life in my bedroom.

But that pales to the feeling now of being utterly powerless, of being blind, in the small backseat of a car with the loathsome man that had held a gun to my father and had threatened to murder him earlier at home; a man who had gagged my poor father by duct tape over the mouth and had tied his hands to a chair.

Confined to darkness, all I can use is my ears and my own hearing to judge what's happening in the car now. I know that we're still moving to whatever destination that he's planning to take me; I feel the familiar vibration and roll of the car beneath the leather seats.

Only I can't hear what the man's doing beside me, and the fact that I can't... that disturbs me greatly. Is he watching me freely now? Is he ogling my body with those grey cold dead-fish eyes of his like he was before he'd covered my eyes?

All I can seem to hear is my own panicked, shallow breathing in the car. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Not for the life of me, no matter how hard I try, can I hear the man sitting in the backseat with me. I can't hear him at all.

The seat beneath me seems to lurch as I dart forward, my kneecaps touching the cushioned exterior of the seat in front of me. I recognize it as a stopping motion. The car has stopped; The vibration beneath my thighs has reduced to a lower level, not as obvious as it had been before. Has the car stopped moving?

To the right of me, I hear the sound of a car door being opened. Then slammed.

My heart accelerates beating in my chest it seems, the taste of hope and freedom leaving a tang in my mouth. Has he stepped out of the car? The man sitting beside me? Could I use this as a chance to leave? Could this be my one and only chance of an attempt to escape?

Swallowing hard against a lump in my throat, I reach out, my fingers touching the cool, smooth leather on the seat near my thigh. I need to be certain that he isn't still next to me. I can't take any foolish risks or chances.

Using my sensation of touch, I move my hand slowly, dragging it further across the seat to feel out my surroundings, to see if he's still there or not. I have never felt more cautiously hyper aware of my surroundings than I am right now.

My scalp prickling in anxious fear, my breathing unsteady, I reach further with my fingers. And further, gliding them along the cool seat, my palm brushing the leather.

 _And then- oh, Jesus, no!_

I am dead. I stop breathing.

My fingers touch that familiar luxuriously silky cloth that I'd touched earlier as I'd gotten down onto my knees, begging and pleading for the man to take me instead of my father's life. I feel the heat of his skin, his leg through the fabric, hard muscle.

Suddenly, I feel like I've just been flung off a cliff or as if I've just descended off a tall ride at a theme park. I get that terrible vertiginous sensation, like my stomach and intestines have fallen and dropped out of my chest.

 _Crap, he's still sitting in the car next to me. And I just touched the man's trousers._

Immediately, I draw my hand back, interlinking all my fingers together safely back into my lap, squeezing down tight. I don't know if he noticed that I had done it or not, but I wait nervously, listening for the second he asks me about it, demanding an answer into why I just touched him the way I had. Only it never comes.

The door clicks open in the same area as before. Then it slams shut.

"I've just been given the all clear to enter, sir." It's that same man's voice as before, the one that answered him, the one in the driver seat. I recognize his smoky, rough voice.

"Very good, Taylor." I keep myself mute as I listen to them, hoping to make sense of their words. "And everything looks well inside?"

"Yes, Sir."

The car starts vibrating again, moving. I think perhaps we've finally arrived at our destination, but I can't be too sure. We come to a rolling stop again, and then two doors open this time. Slamming doors. I sit where I am, afraid to move, afraid to even so much as speak.

Then the door next to me opens. Cold air brushes against me, making me tremble. The sound of a pair of shoes crunching against loose gravel.

"You want me to take her inside, Sir?" The man again with the course, gravelly voice, the driver.

"No, that will not be necessary." The man that owns me now, the one I pleaded to take me with him instead of murdering my father. He has that voice again, like he's bored. Like this is the most normal thing in the world to be talking about a young woman as if she isn't there while she's practically blindfolded. "I'll take care of this, Taylor." He sounds close. Too close for comfort.

I'm sick of this. I'm sick of feeling so debilitated, so helpless and vulnerable, with not being able to see. Assuming it's safe to, I lift my hand, about to push the eye-mask up and away from my eyes. A warm hand wraps around my wrist tightly, stopping my movements. Slender fingers curl roughly around my wrist, so tight it aches. More tears cascade down my eyes, making the fabric of the eye-mask feel all moist.

"Keep the eye-mask on for now," the man that's taken me says harshly, a strict deadly order. I know better than to disobey him. "There's nothing important to see here." The instance I drop my hand back down into my lap, he releases his fingers around my wrist. A dull ache lingers. There's more crunching of gravel. "Get out," he mutters, something rude and heartless in his tone.

It's as if I'm this hindrance to him, something unplanned. Something that's keeping him away from something important.

Gritting my teeth, I move gingerly, swiveling my legs out of the car first carefully. I arch my heels, my shoes greeting loose rocky ground. Cold air seeps into the car, hitting my skin.

"Watch your head."

I flinch uncontrollably as he lays an unexpected hand on me, on the top of my head, on my hair, his fingers outstretched, the warmth of his palm radiating to my scalp.

It isn't forceful, a rough touch exactly, like he's shoving me. He merely sits his hand there on the top of my head, gentle as a butterfly, like he's trying to protect me from knocking my head against the roof or the door. Talk about unexpected.

I inhale in deeply through my mouth, bracing myself to step out, to use my legs to hold myself upright. Then slowly, I bring myself to lean out of the car on an angle. He moves his hand from the top of my head the instance I'm out; some small relief to cling onto in this nightmare of a situation.

With weak, heavy limbs, I move blindly a few steps forward, gravel stones scraping and crushing together beneath my shoes. I lift up with both arms outstretched, feeling around, my fingers meeting frosty empty air around me. A light breeze pushes strands of my hair around off my shoulders as a car door slams again.

A crazy, sudden impulse makes me think about running. Or screaming at the top of my lungs even, for help. But I'm blind and it's too late.

I hear their voices behind me, their soft murmurings as I keep stepping forward. Left foot in front of me cautiously, then right. Left, right. Left, right.

I may as well not even exist. "Taylor, spread word around to security and all of the men that I'll be having a guest staying. Make it extremely clear to all of them that she's off-limits and that she is not to be interfered with in anyway whatsoever."

"I'll get right onto that, sir."

Next left foot nudged forward, I feel something softer, something less harsh than the gravel. There's a bit of an incline, a higher arch. I inch forward with my right foot slowly, until both of my shoes touch a much softer, higher padded ground. Grass, maybe? Have I reached grass or dirt now?

As I keep moving forward, arms outstretched and held in front of me, fingers waiting to feel something, I become aware of how eerily silent my surroundings have become.

There's no more voices, no more men speaking. Hope blossoms in my heart as I begin to breathe strenuously. Has he left me out here? Am I all alone now? Or is this all some sort of sadistic joke, to leave the defenseless eye-mask covered girl thinking she's got a hope and chance of surviving this? Of being free?

And then I hear it. A laugh somewhere from behind me. _His_ laugh, similar to the one he used while speaking on the phone in the car to the man he'd left behind to deal with my parents. A short, low, breathlessly demeaning chuckle.

I stop still, frozen at the sound of it, lowering my arms.

He's laughing cruelly at me. He's finding sick, sordid pleasure in watching me, in letting me begin to feel the slightest tinge of hope.

The rapid crunching noises of gravel alerts me to his footsteps approaching me at a quick pace but before I can think of anything to do, his hand closes over my upper arm, tugging me backwards. "That's enough now. Come."

He's too powerful, too strong. Immediately I know it's useless to attempt to fight back, to get free of his hold, so I go along with it, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

Our conversation on the car ride over comes back to me.

He said he wouldn't kill me.

He said, as far as living arrangements would be concerned, that I'd be having my own room. That I wouldn't be spoken to or interfered with.

He said that I'll just need to attend some sort of function with him, that people take a man more seriously if he appears involved with another person. He never elaborated on what sort of functions they were though or what to expect. He'd been evasive and abrupt. Closed-off and unwilling to give me more than that.

And, as far as I could tell, he looked utterly serious when he'd said he had no interest in me, in doing anything horrible or becoming forceful with me. I know I shouldn't believe the man. I realistically have no true reason to trust him at all and yet, I find it's the only thing giving me sanity right now. The only thing to cling onto; the hope that he turns out trustworthy and that he keeps his word in the end.

He still doesn't make a move to remove the eye-mask covering my eyes so that I can see. He holds onto my upper arm, dragging me along. I know we've reached inside a house or something of the sort when that cool breeze suddenly stops when I feel hard floor rather than gravel or grass beneath my shoes.

He yanks me to a stand-still while I hear him press something. Then about a minute later, there's a distinctive sound of an elevator opening, the mechanical doors whirring open loudly with a ding.

"Walk forward three steps," he says from beside me, and I do as he says while remaining quiet.

Then the doors close again, there's another sound of a button being jabbed at, and then there's that unnerving feeling of being shot upright that I definitely have come to know as being in an elevator. We're riding in an elevator now. I'm confident that we are. He's still got his hand wrapped around my arm, his fingers digging into my skin as he stands beside me, waiting for us to arrive to wherever it is that he is intending to take me.

In the elevator, just the two of us trapped in a metal box, I think I can smell him. Having to rely on my other senses more because the eye-mask is still on, I think I can smell the cologne he's wearing. It's a heady, masculine scent that fills my nostrils.

I hope that isn't a sign that he's standing really close to me. Who knows? He could even be eyeing me right now with those cold, empty eyes of his while we stand in the elevator waiting to reach the floor he wants and I wouldn't even know it, would I? My stomach twists nervously at the thought.

We come to a halt, then I hear the doors slide open. He shoves me forward, still pulling me along by his hand around my arm.

Panic over my situation makes me feel paralyzed again, unable to breathe. _Breathe,_ I tell myself as I keep letting him lead the way. _Just breathe. You'll make it out of this alive so long as you keep calm and keep breathing._

"Stop here," he murmurs, letting my arm go suddenly.

My arm buzzes from the loss of contact, the loss of tight pressure from his fingers. I wonder if I'll bruise later.

There's a tug-pull sensation around my head, strands being ripped out along with the tight elastic band of the mask, as I realize what he's doing. He's removing the eye-mask. I steady myself, bracing myself to be able to see again.

Once he's completely removed the mask, it takes me a second for my vision to get right again. My eyes feel blurry and glued-together from dried tears. I blink them rapidly as I peer round the room he's taken me to. There's just a double bed, with two white dressers on each side. It feels cold and clinical, the room. Exactly like the man standing to the right of me.

"This will be your room from now on," he explains, his voice emotionless, low. "As I said earlier in the car, no one will disrupt you. You'll be left alone until you're needed."

I wrap my arms around my chest protectively, hugging myself, as I scrutinize the man standing to the right of me carefully. My stomach muscles clench unpleasantly at how impassive the man looks, how unfeeling and at how just a chilling blank mask of nothingness his expression is. He eyes the room himself, his grey eyes seeming hollow with nothing shining in them, no emotions whatsoever.

I think _he's_ the scariest thing about this situation. It isn't the unknown or the threat of death at all. It's all him; the fact that he's the one who did such a vile thing to my father earlier, all simply because he's greedy and he wants my father to pay him back in time enough.

Can a man truly be so dead on the inside? I thought I'd seen brief flickers of humanity, of sympathy, out there when he was speaking to me in the car, while he was telling me how it was all going to be. But had I imagined that, all along? Had I just hoped I'd seen that, like a defense mechanism, a protective thing to make myself feel better?

"I sleep just down the hall, on the same floor," he adds while shoving the eye-mask in his trouser pocket, again sounding so bored, so inconvenienced. It's obvious he has somewhere else he wishes to be than here, with me, having to deal with me. "As I also said in the car, if anyone so much as lays an unwanted hand on you, you are to tell me immediately and I'll deal with it."

I try not to show any sign of fear or anxiety in my expression when he turns his gaze to me, looking me dead on in the eyes. I see the faintest flicker of impatience reflecting in them as he arches his eyebrows at me, as if he's expecting something from me in return.

Then I remember how he demanded in the car that I answer him that I understand, and I know what I have to do then. "Y-yes, fine," I manage, though my voice is unsteady and frail sounding.

"The man that drove us here? Taylor?"

Again, I try not to cower away, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "Y-yes?"

"If there's anything you need, just write out a list and I'll hand it over to Taylor to take care of."

I really don't understand. If I'm to be here, if I'm practically the daughter of the man who owes him reimbursement of his money, then why would he make sure I have everything that I need while I'm here? I assumed he wouldn't give a rat's ass and that I was just some insignificant thing he was holding ransom instead of taking my father's life?

I know he said after the phone call that my father and mother had been left alone, but I really do need to know. "W-what about my family?" I ask nervously. "I-I mean, w-what happens to them while I'm here? Are they going to be-"

"- They're safe. _For now_." Again, like how I got the impression of it in the car when he spoke about them, he sounds sincere, as if he's being honest and that my parents _are_ safe like he assures me they are. It doesn't seem like he's lying, and he holds my gaze, so it isn't like he can't look me in the eye while he says it.

While I want nothing more than to be away from this man, to be alone, I also need to know more. For my own sanity, I need to, no matter how much I feel like I want to run and hide from this man's unnerving stare.

"So you... you'll want me to attend functions with you?" I force myself to ask, ignoring the prickly sensations all over my skin. "And you'll... you want me to stay here?" I know I don't sound very calm or unafraid; My voice is too high, too shaky. I hadn't wanted him to be able to tell how scared I am or how nervous. But there isn't much I can do about that now, really. "F-for how long exactly?"

He jerks a shoulder nonchalantly while running his fingers through his hair, combing the strands back. "For however long it takes," he simply says.

"F-for however long _what_ takes?"

"For _however long_ it takes for your father to pay me back," he mutters beneath his breath, finally clarifying what he completely means, but there's an annoyed, hard edge there.

I feel yet again like I'm something he wishes to spend as little time with as possible. He doesn't enjoy speaking to me and having to explain things to me right now.

"We settled on an agreement. I give him two years."

My mind runs wildly at his words. _Two years? He gives my father a two year deadline to pay him back the money that he borrowed?_

"And so where..." I hesitate, holding my arms around my chest tighter as a sinking feeling infects my stomach. "Where does that leave me then? Am I to be staying here for t-t-two years? Doing what?"

Two years is an incredibly long time, and he has me here. Does that mean I remain here for the two years as well until my father pays up?

I suddenly wish I wasn't so curious to know. My mind drifts off, pondering all the possible answers to that question. He'll expect me to stay here for two whole years, but doing what? I know he said about attending these functions with him, whatever they are, but... what else? What else can he want?

Surely he can't have two years straight of supposed functions lined up for us both to attend together. What happens after the... the invites fizzle down?

What am I supposed to be doing then? What will happen to me?

 _He'll make me screw him. Screw him and suck his dick. Or maybe he'll even make me screw everyone else if he isn't completely interested in me. He'll hand me over to someone else, let them beat me, violate me and abuse me in horrendous ways until the two years are over. Or maybe he'll even be the one to abuse me._ I feel sick at the thought, my scalp prickling in fear.

Only he doesn't enlighten me. I don't end up getting my answer. I don't get any answer or any relief. His phone buzzes and he retrieves it out of his inner jacket pocket, checking the identity of the caller.

"This is an urgent call," he says, glancing up from the screen to look at me. "I need to take this." There's nothing in his eyes that gives him away; No feeling, or sympathy. Nothing.

As he turns to move out of the room, he pauses suddenly by the door-frame, looking back over his shoulder at me as if he's remembered something.

"Oh. We have dinner most nights at seven," he adds through the buzzing of his phone, those grey eyes of his trailing down my clothes slowly for like the hundredth time he's done so. It feels as if he's seeking something, something I'm not sure what. I cover myself with an audible swallow, disturbed by his looking. Once he returns his eyes to my face again, he finishes in a curt, demanding tone with no compromise or no room for discussion, "I expect you to eat with me so be ready when I come up here to get you."

Then he turns on his heel while holding the phone up to his ear as if satisfied and confident that he's made himself clear enough.

I shiver uncontrollably as I rub both hands up and down the length of my arms, like I'm almost trying to scrub his cold, dead-eyed gaze off me.

The man just basically said that I'll be stuck here for _two full years_ until my father manages to pay the rest of the money he's borrowed off, and who knows what he'll do to me in the meantime? Not only that, but earlier the man was threatening to kill my father at gun point, a man I love more than anything in the entire world, he'd gagged him with duct tape and tied him to chair and, regardless of all this, he still expects me to be able to dine with him at seven?

Like who even has a good enough appetite to eat after all of that, especially with the very same man that just did all of that to a loved family member?

Insane. The man, he's psychotic and insane if he thinks I'm eating dinner with him.

 **Sorry I took so long to write another chapter for this story as well.**

 **There will be more to what he expects of Ana, so don't worry, it won't just be for functions and that sort of thing. :) All will be revealed, as well as the 'mutual arrangement' between Ray and him, though it was more so a forceful arrangement than mutual.**

 **Thanks for your interest in the plot and storyline, hoping this chapter doesn't disappoint you :) I will try write and finish all three of them.**


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